"And the king, of course, believed," he said. "Oh, credulous king!" he added scornfully. "Was ever a monarch so easily befooled? A judge of men? No; a ruler who trusts rather to fortune and blind destiny. Unlike Charles, he looks not through men, but at them."
"Think no more of it," she broke in, hastily, seeing the effect of her words.
"Nay, good Jacqueline," quickly retorted the jester; "the truth, I pray you. Believe me, I shall mend the sooner for it. What said the duke—as he calls himself?"
"Why, he shook his head ruefully," answered the girl, not noticing his reservation. "'Your Majesty,' he said, 'for the memory of bygone quibbles I sought him, but found him not—alack!—on the stool of repentance.'"
About the fool's mouth quivered the grim suggestion of a half-smile.
"He is the best jester of us all," he muttered. "And then?" fastening his eyes upon hers.
"'No sooner, Sire,' went on the duke, 'had I entered the cell than he rushed upon me, and, it grieves me, I used the wit-snapper roughly.' So"—folding her hands before her and gazing at the plaisant—"I e'en came to see if you were killed."
"You came," he said. "Yes; but how?"
"What matters it?" she answered. "Perhaps it was magic, and the cell-doors flew open at my touch."
"I can almost believe it," he returned.